Lamma Island, 9:59AM – Typhoon Approaching.

Entry 151

At a bend in the path, a twinge of tanginess on the breeze. Rotting fruit. Not mangoes. Not lychee. Not papaya. Not banana. A friend who collects antique silver and somehow also manages to stay in touch with nature enough to know the names of all the plants receives my photo of the fruit. It’s a fig, he replies. The fruit of childhood after-school snacks, fig newtons. I am sad I didn’t recognize it myself. The first fig newton was sold 133 years ago. Not named in praise of physics. Newton is a Boston suburb. How far away these facts are in both time and space. Is it the season? I ask. No, my friend says. Figs need a wasp to die inside them in order to ripen. That fact is close enough.